


Decisions

by Ayai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayai/pseuds/Ayai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In America's mind, that was the perfect world. The world where he didn't exist." Rated T for language. VERY SLIGHT USUK, LIKE LEGIT, barely any. Suicidal!America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Fat.

Stupid.

Arrogant.

Useless.

Those words had been used to describe America numerous times by the other nations, and each time he heard them, it was like a knife to his heart. They suffocated him, constricting his windpipes making breathing impossible.

It was a mystery when he started using those four words to describe himself. America doesn't remember when he started believing them, possibly sometime during the Cold War.

He tried. He tried so hard, but it was all in vain.

He had saved the people he had thought were his friends time after time, only for them to take it for granted and point out all of his flaws, beating him down to make their failures seem insignificant compared to his.

America couldn't even defend himself against their harsh judgments.

He was fat.

He was stupid.

He was an arrogant pig.

He was just so useless.

It was because he believed those phrases that he was able to put up with it for so long. Every day, England, the man who raised him, called him fat.

'America, you really need to stop eating fast food, it's the reason why you're so fat.'

Every day, France, who helped him during the Revolutionary War, called him stupid.

'Ah, just shut up Amérique, we don't need you and your stupid ideas to fix our economies.'

Russia insulted him every chance he fucking got.

'You should really just leave, you're such a capitalist pig it gives me a headache.'

China held his debt over his head.

'Ugh, you still can't pay it off? You're so useless, aru.'

He blamed himself for Canada's invisibility, because he constantly overshadowed his brother, not even meaning to. Canada never said anything, but America could see the resentment in Canada's eyes.

And the one time Canada did break, he let out everything. Everything he had ever wanted to say to America, he withheld nothing, not caring about how much his words impacted his brother.

That was the first time America let his true feelings show. Instead of laughing it off and plastering a big, fake smile on his face, he cried.

Canada apologized. He said it was wrong of him to say those things.

But he never took them back.

It was probably that that drove America to where he was now, on top of the UN building, with his legs dangling off the edge.

Or maybe it knew that the love of his life resented him for his choices in the past.

It was crazy, America's love for the person who helped make his life a living hell, it didn't even make any sense to himself. But the way those emerald eyes sparkled when they weren't clouded with anger; it took America's breath away.

He tried to adjust himself to England's ideal near the beginning. He stopped eating, didn't really say much at meetings, dressed appropriately, and threw away all of his video games. But England didn't notice. He had commented on America's attire once, but insulted his weight in the same breath, being unable to see just how far his ribs stuck out under the suit that was far too big for him now.

He regretted his revolution for some time, thinking that if he never revolted, England might still care about him. Be it as a brother, or more. England made it obvious that he hadn't forgiven America for that, and he had shown no signs of doing so in the future, either.

After awhile, he just gave up. England was never going to return his feelings, so why continue fighting the battle when the outcome of the war was already decided?

He loved them both dearly, his brother and England. They'd probably be happier when he was gone anyways. All the countries would celebrate the death of the world's superpower, Canada would finally get noticed, and England would end up with France.

In America's mind, that was the perfect world. The world where he didn't exist.

The fighting that was constant whenever he was around would disappear almost all together. Because, in some way, he caused it all. There would be small quarrels, of course, but would there ever be another war? Possibly, but he would never know.

America loved his country, he loved his people. But a lot of them could no longer say the same. People had begun to hate living in America, for various, idiotic reasons, and it hurt him so much every time some bratty teenager somewhere wished they could live anywhere but America.

With not even the love of his people to support him, America couldn't find a reason not to jump. He could feel guilt pooling in his stomach, because of his selfish wants; the people in front of the UN building were most likely going to be scarred for life after witnessing him fall thirty nine stories to the ground. He also felt for the people who would have to clean up the mess he left behind, if there was a mess, anyways. He might even just disappear as soon as he hit the concrete, fading away into history.

What would happen to the United States of America after he was gone, he had no clue. He could only think that someone would be there to take over his job. He was replaceable, after all.

A smiled grace America's face, and he rose to his feet, swaying slightly, his knees buckling because of how high up he appeared.

The stairwell door burst open, "America!", he flinched and swung around, watching the person he wanted to see least at that moment pant from the exertion they had used from running up the flights of stairs.

England's hair was a somewhat comforting sight for America, his run having messed it up even more then it usually was. His grip on the doorknob was incredibly tight, as he was using it to support his weight while he caught his breath.

A figure appeared from behind him, and the curl was a tell tale sign that Canada had indeed gotten the letter America sent him this morning, and informed the rest of the nations about it, because they were all soon pushing their way out of the stairwell and onto the roof.

America cursed his week resolve, mad at himself for caving in on his plan to not say goodbye to anyone, he just had to apologize to Canada for everything, he felt he wouldn't be able to go through with his plans had he not.

England slowly inched his way over to America, holding out his hand.

America tensed, and looked back over the edge of the building; it was less than a step away—

England stopped his advances, "Alfred," he spoke quietly, trying not to startle the younger nation, "please, come here, lad. Back away from the ledge."

America stared at the man he loved, studying the pleading and fear in his eyes, then he looked at his brother. Canada had tears dripping down his face, soaking into the fur of Kumajiro, who did not look pleased at all to be at this high an altitude.

His vision drifted back to the concrete below.

He had a choice on what to do then.

Step back and return to the two people who meant everything to him, but also return to the judgment, ridicule, and pain.

Or step forward and be free, with the price of never seeing his beloveds again.

America's smile had returned slightly.

In his whole life, he had never made an easier decision.


	2. Chapter 2

Canada was, to say in the very least, worried about his brother.

Now and days, America wasn't America. His eyes had lost their former shine, his skin's glow faded, leaving him pale, and his clothes grew overly baggy on his frame.

It wasn't just his appearance, personality wise his brother had changed over the last few days. He no longer openly fantasized over his dreams of becoming the world's hero, but he sat quietly in his chair at meetings. Once, when Canada had gone over to America's house after a meeting to check up on him, America had never answered the door, so he just walked in, finding the house completely dark, and almost empty.

There were no more pictures on the wall, the American flags were taken down, the television and gaming devices were removed, there was a very small amount of food in the kitchen, and the stove had a thin layer of dust on it.

That was what sent warning bells off in Canada's head. America's house appeared deserted, but Canada knew it wasn't, because America's car was in the driveway. He inspected every room in the house, most of them being completely empty, and some of them breaking the pattern by only being a bathroom or having only a double bed in them.

After a long while of searching, Canada saw the door leading down to the basement was cracked open, and the light was on. He let out a sigh of relief; glad to have finally found his brother, but his relief morphed into fear, why was America down there? He hated the basement.

He had pushed himself through the door, trying his hardest not to open it much, because the hinges were very old and squeaked loudly, and made his way down the wooden steps, that creaked and sent shivers up the Canadian's spine.

The basement had a very old, musty smell. The kind that would linger on your clothes long after you vacated the area, and left you wondering where it was coming from. Canada wrinkled his nose, and peeked around the wall, his eyes searching for his older brother's figure in the dim lighting.

America tended to avoid the basement, always insisting that there were ghosts lurking about down there, and whenever he needed to retrieve something from said place, he used to call Canada over just to get the object. He would call Canada for a number of crazy reasons, actually, usually ranging from cooking help (he didn't just eat hamburgers) to the best way to rescue a cat from a tree. Canada was better at assisting with the former, which always seemed to disappoint the American.

Canada hadn't received a phone call from his brother in quite a while, which was also a need for alarm, because his calls used to happen more than once daily. It was strange, over a period of time, America's calling got less frequent, going from a number of times a day, to once, then once every few days, one call every week, then once every other week, until the calls just, ceased in general.

America had never bothered to get his basement really furnished, seeing as he rarely found the courage to go down there, and only ended up putting in a couch, an old television and Game Cube, and putting a rug at the base of the stairs.

He had expected to see his brother sitting less than a foot away from the television screen, in his hands the Game Cube controller, playing the older Zelda games. That, unfortunately, was not the sight he was greeted with.

At some point in time, America had moved all the boxes from his storage room to down here, and they were all lined up and stacked against the wall. Over time, the cardboard had been damaged, and the boxes looked like they were in rough shape, with rips, water stains, and dents all over them.

America's back faced Canada, and he was hunched over a particularly beat up box, pulling out of its depths what seemed to be photographs, from Polaroid cameras. They too, were yellowing and out of shape, but the pictures still showed the same thing they did all those years ago.

Canada couldn't tell exactly what pictures America was looking at, because of the poor lighting, and because of the angle America was holding them. He had his share of old pictures, most of them consisted of him and America, but occasionally he'd find some of England and France in the picture with them. He always loved going through old photos, letting the memories wash over him, like it was just yesterday. Nostalgia was a welcome feeling, as it never made the Canadian sad, but joyous that he got to experience such wonderful moments in time.

He was about to call out to America when he first noticed that something was wrong.

America's silhouette seemed to be trembling, and his fingers couldn't stay straight when he ran them over the photograph. They shook violently, and he had clenched them into fists, which Canada believed was an attempt to stop the vibrations running through his hand.

Droplets of water began falling on the faded picture, which Canada could now see held four figures, which he could only guess as to who they were. America rubbed his face with his free hand harshly, and drew in shaky breaths, trying to calm himself, though his attempted proved worthless.

Canada couldn't remember just how long he stood at the base of the stairs, eyes trained on his brother, who had always seemed so strong, so proud, reduced to tears over a simple picture.

Eventually he snapped out of his daze, and felt conflicted on whether or not he should announce his presence, or turn around and leave.

He chose the latter, because America would have been so embarrassed if he had known Canada was there the whole time he was crying, and silently scrambled up the stairs, for once thankful for the lack of noise he generated.

The memory of that day has haunted him ever since.

That was a few weeks ago, and once again, Canada was the first person to arrive at the meeting that was scheduled in… about ten minutes. He was actually surprised that America hadn't beaten him there, seeing as the meeting was being held in his country, and his New York apartment was just a little ways down the road.

Canada settled into his usually seat, hoping that maybe this time, the nations could actually get something done. America's crazy suggestions toned down quite a bit; he talked during meetings, of course, but acted more serious. Although it seemed forced, because occasionally his mature front would break down, and his true personality would shine through, usually the chaos ensued right afterward.

Later, Canada would learn that it too was just a façade. His true character at the moment, wouldn't have been cracking jokes and poking fun at the other nations, he would have been silent, eyes staring at the wall, wishing he could disappear.

Other nations stared to file into the room, most walking with their friends, chattering away happily. This caused the volume level to rise considerably, and it made Canada somewhat nervous, and after awhile, he just focused his attention on the floor, studying a dust bunny under the table with interest.

Something white caught his eye. His eyebrows furrowed together and he tried to make out what it was. Peeking out from halfway under his chair, there was a crisp, new envelop.

Confused, Canada reached down and took it into his hand, figuring it was most likely left behind from a previous meeting, but was surprised when he found it was addressed to him.

He was even more surprised when he identified the handwriting as America's.

People had always figured America had incredibly sloppy handwriting, Canada never knew exactly why, but they did. It was the exact opposite, though. His handwriting was a work of art, as Canada had always called it, and America used to laugh at the praise, saying it was just words, how could it be art? It reminded Canada of handwriting from all those years ago, when America must have learned how to write. It was like the writing on the Declaration of Independence, but easier to decipher. It was hard to explain, but Canada had always tried his best while explaining why he loved America's handwriting so much to his brother.

America's own personal calligraphy spelled out Canada's human name, causing his eyes to enlarge, as America rarely ever called him Matthew. He punctured the top of the envelop with his fingernail, that he hadn't gotten around to cutting in quite awhile, and with a flick of his wrist, a folded piece of notebook paper landed in his lap.

Canada's watch beeped quietly and it was echoed by several others, whose owners also bothered to set an alarm for the start of the meeting.

Germany stood up at the head of the table, mentally taking roll, his eyes glanced over every chair, daring anyone of them to be empty. Once he got to America's, he was rather surprised to find it vacated, because even if he was never early, he always arrived right before the start of the meeting.

"America's not here, yet?" he asked, it was more of a rhetorical question then anything. No one else seemed concerned, so Germany shrugged and began the meeting.

While the tall German was speaking, Canada took the chance to unfold the sheet of paper, being careful not to rip it, as it felt breakable. A feeling of unease settled itself in Canada's stomach as he began reading.

Mattie,

How long has it been since I've called you that? I honestly can't remember.

I'm not known for writing, so I'm going to attempt to keep this letter kinda short.

I failed, Mattie. I took chances, and for a long time I felt like I came out lucky, like I won. But after thinking about it, I really just lost more than I gained.

I got my revenge numerous times, but I've destroyed relationships, and I regret it. I regret it so much.

In 1813, when I burned York, I made a mistake. I was just so angry, and after you and England invaded D.C, I seriously hated the both of you.

In that war, I did things I'm not proud of, and I wish they never happened.

Mattie, you once said that you thought people didn't notice you because I was your neighbor, because I was completely overshadowing you. It was never on purpose, I swear.

I'm so, so sorry for everything. I could never apologize enough for the number of problems I've caused for you.

You're my brother, and I was supposed to protect you, and care for you. Seems I can't do anything right, right Mattie? You were right when you said I wasn't a hero, and that I probably never would be.

For a second, can I be selfish and ask you to make sure my country don't crash and burn? Even if my people hate me, I don't want them to get hurt.

I had my time in the spotlight, and I think it's finally your turn, bro.

Maybe after I'm gone, you'll finally get the recognition you deserve.

Sorry I was such a shitty brother.

I love ya, Mattie,

Alfred F. Jones

Goodbye

Canada's hand shook violently, and his vision began clouding.

'Goodbye?'

He didn't understand. Why was America saying goodbye? Why did he say 'after I'm gone'?

His fingers ghosted over the paper, and his grip on it tightened. The paper crinkled, and the Canadian drew in a breath, causing the nations next to him to turn their heads, wondering where the noise was coming from.

There were stains dotting the letter, and his fingers lingered over them, noting that he was causing similar ones to appear.

The other nations were beginning to worry about why the world's second largest country was crying, and France ceased his report about his economy, finally noticing.

"Mon cher, Mathieu, pourquoi pleures-tu?" France asked, with genuine concern in his eyes. Why are you crying ?

Canada's silent tears turned into quiet sobs, and held up the letter with shaky hands, "It's A-Alfred. Something's w-wrong with h-him." he said between heaves.

England stood up from his seat beside Canada, snatching the letter from his weak grasp. His emerald orbs scanned the paper, widening with fear once reaching about halfway down the page.

His head shot up and he looked around the conference room, all eyes were on him.

"We have to find America." He said urgently.

Cuba rolled his eyes, "And why the hell should we do that?"

England's eyes narrowed with rage, "Because if we don't, something bad is going to fucking happen." That shut the island nation up, "Anyone else want to make a complaint?" his tone of voice dared anyone to say anything. The room was silent except for Canada's sobbing.

"Good, now, we're all going to split up and search the city, Canada and I will check his apart—" England was interrupted by a scream from outside.

Canada jumped up from his chair and rushed over to the window, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste. He slammed it open and stuck his head out, his gaze on a female citizen, pointing franticly to the roof of the building, and yelling at anyone who would listen to call for help.

England pushed his way beside Canada, shoving him somewhat roughly, but he barely noticed. He strained his neck, twisting his head up towards the top of the UN building, while gripping onto the windowsill to keep from falling out.

The woman was still yelling, and a slight panic was beginning to go through the crowd below, and Canada could finally tell what she was screaming at.

A pair of legs, hanging off the top of the building, swinging, like they belonged to a child on a swing set.

Canada sucked in a choked breath, and said in the loudest voice he could muster, "He's on the roof!"

He pulled his head back into the room and pushed away from the window, and he raced out of the conference room, pausing only to reach out and snatch Kumajiro out of his chair, with confused eyes following him.

The well decorated hallway was deserted, and Canada slammed his fist onto the up button for the elevator, only hesitating for a second before deciding it would take far too long to get there.

Footsteps behind him reveled that other nations had followed him out of the room, and Canada barely glanced at them before speeding off again, in search of the stairs.

He flew down the long hallway, finding himself neck and neck with England, who seemed just as worried as he was feeling. The very last door held what they were looking for behind it, and they slammed there bodies into it, pushing it open with such a force that it dented the wall once it opened.

They began the long descent up, the other countries following none too closely behind them.

Canada rubbed his arm across his eyes, attempting to clear his vision so he wouldn't fall and waste time and ground, "England, I knew something was wrong, and I didn't do anything!" he cried to the older nation, who looked at him with fearful eyes.

"Too late now, poppet," he huffed, "just focus on fixing things now."

Canada took a deep breath, although his lungs were burning from the strenuous exercise. He hadn't worked out in awhile, and his body was not prepared in the least for the hard work out it was receiving, from taking thirty flights of stairs two at a time. Kumatichi made small noises of unease every time he was jostled in his master's arms.

Canada was mentally beating himself with every step, he should have done something! He could tell that something was wrong with America, and he just ignored it! He shouldn't have run away when he saw America crying, he should have gone up to him, and comforted his brother.

What would become of the world if America wasn't in it? Canada couldn't picture it; America played such a large part in just about everything. And even if he didn't know it, he meant so much, to so many people.

Canada couldn't remember, had America ever been told how much he meant to the world? He remembered the insults that were constantly thrown the American's way, but he always took them with a smile and a laugh, but had they really done more damage than they appeared? His self esteem must've been crumbling for years now, what with the harsh comments from countries all around, with no one ever sticking up for him, or even saying anything nice about him.

Canada felt ashamed in himself. He was just as guilty, never helping his brother when countries ganged up on him, never telling him just how much he loved him, never told him how he was needed.

America must've started believing those god awful things people said about him, and it broke Canada's heart to think about the pain he must have gone through.

England was already ahead of Canada by some bit, turning the corner to the next floor right when he entered Canada's line of sight. The North American country pushed himself harder, his muscles screaming in protest.

A normal human would have been exhausted by that point, but Canada wasn't a normal human, and he was racing against time for someone he held dear to his heart.

A long banging startled Canada, causing him to miss the step, and almost fall, but he reached out with his free hand and gripped the railing, steadying himself. From the change in air pressure in the stairwell, he guessed that England reached the roof.

'Just a little further!' he told himself, beginning to move forward again, with just as much enthusiasm and vigor as before.

His shoes slid a bit on the concrete when he turned the corner so quickly, struggling to keep his balance, eyes trained on the bright light, only a flight of stairs away.

His eyes widened, and he pushed himself harder, making it up those stairs in record time.

The cold November air hit him hard, as did the bright light, and he squinted his eyes, only causing the tears to fall faster.

England was leaning on the door, staring with scared eyes at the tall figure, standing at the edge of the building; body angled slightly, sky blue eyes trained on the Briton.

Canada wanted to call out to his brother, but he couldn't find out how to use his voice. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

America's uniform was so loose on his body, it looked like he was a young child trying on his father's suit for the first time, and he wondered when the last time he ate was. His hair was disheveled, most likely from the wind that was causing his body to sway, he was so dangerously close to the edge—

England stepped forward as the other countries finally reached the roof, all huffing and puffing, struggling to catch their breaths. The former pirate reached out to the trembling form, who looked only seconds away from falling.

"Alfred, please, come here, lad." he begged, his voice shaking slightly, "Back away from the ledge."

America looked conflicted for a moment, before he smiled.

The smile sent shivers of fear and sadness through the Canadian, the smile held all the pain that America had been bottling inside him, for probably years now.

America ran his tongue over his chapped lips, before opening his mouth and speaking to his brother, "Geez, Mattie," he spoke quietly, almost sounding like an exact copy of Canada, his voice was filled to the brim with regret and guilt, "you weren't supposed to tell them." He tried a weak attempt at a joke.

Canada bit the inside of his cheek, the tears refusing to cease, "Al—" he began, his voice weak with fear, but America didn't let him speak.

"Sorry, but it's my turn to talk." America's smile faltered a bit and his hands clenched into fists. His eyes remained in their dull coloring, appearing empty. "Matthew, I've already given you the letter, so now it's their turn." He looked at the other nations, who were all shuffling their feet nervously, and England had begun to cry.

"I wasn't going to do this." He began, his voice strengthening slightly, "But you all insisted on coming up here, so I might as well tell you." America sighed, looking down, "I fucking hate all of you."

A collective intake of break rippled throughout the crowd of nations, but before any of them could respond to this, America continued, "But I love you all, too. And I don't know what to fucking do about it.

"I'm constantly attacked, every time I step into that conference room. Not physically, mentally. Really, if you all hate me so much, just get rid of me instead of keeping me around for your own personal pleasure. I'm not a fucking punching bag.

"You made fun of me for being fat, for wanting the world to be peaceful, for wishing I was the hero, and I could save all of you. Even after I changed myself to fit your harsh standards, you still hurt me. Insults are something I can't seem to get the hell away from around here.

"I wish we could go back in time, to when things were better, and we all mostly got along. How long back would that be? God, I don't even know. We all seem to constantly be at odds. But there was one time, I don't remember the year, where everything was just fine. But I guess nothing lasts forever, so whatever."

America stared at England for a while, no one saying anything, but you could tell America was struggling with what to say to him.

"England… I'm sorry I wasn't perfect enough for you. You had so much planned for me, and I threw it all away, but really, I've really wanted to make you proud of me, for as long as I can remember. I wanted you to be able to point me out and go, 'See that boy? I raised him, and he became such a strong country.' England, growing up, you really were my hero. I looked up to you, and worshiped the ground you walked on. And it's such a dramatic change from then to now, you don't even care about me anymore. But who does?

America sighed, licking his lips again and blinked a few time, tilting his head up towards the sky. "Iggy," he used the nickname he had given him years back, usually using it just to annoy the older country, who was only a few steps from America now, with his hand still outstretched, silently begging for America to take it, "I really love you, ya know? Like, a lot. I shouldn't after all the shit you've put me through, but I do. Because I'm fucked up in the head. But we both know I'm never gonna be good enough for you, so I never thought I'd have a chance with you anyways."

Moving faster than Canada's ever seen him, America reached out and grabbed England's chin, pulling him forward slightly, just enough for America to lean down and press their lips together for only a second, before releasing him and straightening out his back.

"Bye, dudes." America whispered, and stepped backwards, into the air. And he fell.

Canada screamed.

England fell to the ground sobbing.

Japan began to cry.

Everyone else stood in shock, and the world seemed to go silent.

Excluding Norway.

The Nordic nation's chanting was getting louder by the second, in one hand, a giant musty old book, and in the other, a swirling ball of blue energy, which he gripped tightly and was lifting his hand up slowly.

America's body appeared over the edge of the building, and Norway pulled back, causing him to land safely on the roof.

England gripped America's bomber jacket, and shook him, incoherently scolding him. America was still breathing of course, but saying nothing, choosing to just stare up at the sky instead. His eyes were completely lifeless at this point, and if not for the rise and fall of his chest, or the small blinks every few seconds, Canada would have thought his brother was dead.

Canada shuffled his way over to his brother, falling to his knees at his side, brushing his bangs out of his blank face.

"Oh America," he said quietly, wiping his tears away so he could see better, "don't."

England sobbed, "You're lucky Norway saved you, git, what would happen if you died?"

America's mouth popped open, and mouthed 'saved'. Canada grabbed his brother's hand, clenching it as if it were his own personal lifeline.

A single tear dripped out of the dark, empty blue eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate ending, if you don't want America dead, leave now. If you do, please enjoy~

It was as if a black cloud hung over the room of nations, creating a dreary feel that was unusual for this particular group of people, who were usually so light, and joy filled. On a regular day, everyone would be joking with one another, and bickering good-naturedly (most of the time). Sure, the personifications had their differences; it’s what made them their own person—well, nation—with their own quirks, and special abilities that set them out from the rest, one nation never being just like another, but at the end of the day, they were all just a big family. An incredibly big, obnoxious, dysfunctional family.

They had taken it too far, way, _way_ too far. It was a general agreement that they caused the casualty, leaving a gap in their hearts, given for some it was a small hole, while for others it was an impossibly large chasm. It wasn’t everyone who had overdone the teasing, but only a select few, who were harboring such regret within, it crippled them.

Canada had been able to pull himself together enough to make funeral arrangements, wishing for them to be arranged by someone who knew the deceased in his prime, the happiest time in his life, when Canada could say for sure that he was truly _happy_. Vietnam had offered to take care of everything, but Canada had declined her offer, telling her that it was something he had to do for his brother, but leaving out that she never knew his brother as well as he did.

The American flag had been draped over the gleaming wooden casket at the front of the room, all the wrinkles had been smoothed out, just the way America would have wanted it. A single figure stood in front of the casket, his unruly blonde hair even more disheveled than usual, the bags under his eyes were tribute to the fact that he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep ever since the last World Conference.

England gazed longingly at the smooth wood, he would have given anything to just peak into its contents, but the brand new, shining nails holding the casket closed prevented him from doing just that. All of the nations had seen the gruesome scene on 1st Avenue, directly in front of the U.N building, none of them suspected they’d ever be able to get the image out of their heads.

The former pirates fingers rested on the edge of the casket, he knew that he could easily rip the nails from their place, separating him from his friend, his brother, the person he may have one day called his lover, but he wasn’t sure he could take it. The nails were there for a reason after all, no one was supposed to see the young boy inside, his injuries fixed to a certain extent, but not so much that he looked as flawless as before.

England frowned, flawless? The American had looked so terrible; England couldn’t comprehend why he hadn’t done anything before, only added fuel to the burning fire. It had been so obvious that there was something seriously wrong, but England guessed he had only seen what he wanted to, and not what was actually right in front of him. In his last moments, England had finally opened his eyes, truly looking at America for the first time in what must’ve been weeks.

His skin had been pale and clammy, his cheeks sunken, contributing to the frail and sick look he had obtained. His hair had dulled, no longer the color of sunshine, more like a dull wheat color. England didn’t know if it was because he was avoiding the outdoors that he used to enjoy to no extent, or if it was just his depression, reflecting on his appearance. They seemed like the same reason, really.

England couldn’t shake the picture of America teetering on the edge of the building out of his mind, everything reminding him of the once cheerful boy.

What had he done?

America used to drag him out to the most random of places, The Yankee Stadium, The Atlanta Aquarium, the orange orchards in Florida, Hollywood at night, so many famous places, and while explaining the history of each site, America always wore a big smile on his face, excitement dancing through his eyes.

In Florida, America had run through the trees, laughing a real laugh and calling for England to keep up as he dashed through the orchard, no worries in the world it had seemed.

England decided that was how he would always remember America, with a big smile on his face.

A disturbance in the air pressure around England showed that someone was next to him. His eyes flickered over to them, and with a pang in his heart he identified the figure as Canada. The boy looked so much like his brother; it hurt for him to see the North American nation with such a look of sorrow upon his face.

Contrary to England’s prior belief, after America’s death the world kept spinning. Canada had taken over his brother’s job, stepping in until further notice as the personification of the country people associated with freedom. The United States of America had thrived; the depression rate went down, as did the unemployment. The economic problems were fixed in a blink of an eye, much to many a nation’s pleasure.

 _“It seems the world really is better off without Alfred F. Jones.”_ mused England internally, with sick, twisted humor. Although personally, as Arthur Kirkland, he couldn’t imagine himself ever moving on, never recovering from the loss that shook his own personal world to its core.

England’s hand rested on the American flag, relishing its soft texture under his shaking fingers. Canada had themed the entire funeral around the flag, and the room appeared more as if it celebrating the Fourth of July rather than a place of mourning.

A Polaroid picture stared up at England from its place behind a sheet of glass on a table beside the large casket, it’s edges yellow with water stains dotting along the edges, as America never did take great care of his photographs. The black and white picture showed the late America, with his arms wrapped around his brother and an annoyed looking Briton, pulling them into the picture, over Canada’s shoulder, France was running his fingers through the boy he treated as his son’s hair with one hand, the other pressed up against England’s face, attempting to push him out of America’s grip and the picture.

England felt the corners of his lips turn up in a sad smile, reminiscing on the past fondly.

Canada followed England’s gaze to the photo, staying silent for a few moments before speaking softly. “He really liked that picture, you know.”

England nodded offhandedly, refusing to tear his gaze from the photo; Canada took this as a sign to keep talking.

“I saw him crying while looking at it a while back. I didn’t do anything. I just left.” Canada spoke as if he wasn’t expecting a response, more just talking to himself then anything.

There was a stack of papers next to the picture, beside them a pile of envelops. England creased his eyebrows in confusion, but before he could question them, Canada answered his unspoken question.

“To write him letters. They’ll be buried with him.” He motioned to the large basket under the table, already filled to the brim with envelops. On the outside, the same thing was written on each one, with different handwriting and a different name.

_Alfred F. Jones_

England could pick out some of the signatures, Elizabeta Héderváry, Feliks Łukasiewicz, Lili Zwingli, Toris Laurinaitis, Tino Väinämöinen, Lukas Bondevik, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, and Feliciano Vargas. Those were only the ones that England could see, they’re countless more under them.

A flash of white caught his eye, as Canada had raised his own envelop, tossing it into the basket, instead of it reading America’s human name, it said _My Dear Brother_.

England bit his lip, moving his body over to the table, taking one of the pens in his hand and bending over to write his own letter.

For a while, he struggled on what to write. After a bit of thought though, the words seemed to flow out of him.

_Dear Alfred,_

_I know it’s too late to apologize, but I am anyways. I’d like to express how truly regretful I am._

_How many times these last few days have I questioned myself? God, I don’t know. I have no idea why I did it; I assume the insults were just an attempt at making me feel better about myself. I’ve never hated myself more than I do now, so that sort of backfired, didn’t it?_

_If I could go back and erase everything that was said, I would. In a second, without a second thought._

_It’s all my fault and I understand if you never forgive me, wherever you are. I don’t deserve it in the slightest. I already miss you, and your brother is absolutely devastated, we all are._

_I know we never told you just how much to meant to us. And once again I apologize._

_You did mean a lot to us, Alfred, you’re our family. Us nations stick together, through thick and thin, though we did a really horrid job at showing our affection for you, huh?_

_It’s so different without you here. It’s like a weight is pressing down on my heart at all times, and it hurts. I can’t make the pain go away no matter what I do. The Earth keeps revolving around the sun, and I can’t comprehend how, without you here._

_I don’t think I ever noticed how much I needed you. You were basically my anchor, keeping me sane. God knows what would have happened if I was just stuck in a room with that frog and angry German all day. I’d probably go insane. Even if I yelled at you, you did entertain me and make me smile._

_Right now, I’m just so frustrated. I wish you hadn’t jumped. I wish we hadn’t said those terrible things. I want to turn back the clock, but I can’t. I can’t explain exactly how I’m feeling, and I’m really terrible at expressing things. I just want to scream, and cry, and let everything out._

_But I can’t, I have to be strong. You wouldn’t be happy if I broke down, right Alfred? Am I correct when I say that? I know the old you wouldn’t have wanted that, but what about now; do you truly want us to all be hurting?_

_You said the world would be a better place without you. You’re wrong. Nothing will ever replace you._

_You told me you loved me. Did you mean as a brother, or as a man? I guess the former would be considered strange, wouldn’t it, because we kissed._

_I don’t love you like that, but maybe if you had given me time, I could have._

_That’s all we all needed. Time. We could have fixed everything if you had given that to us, but I guess it would have been selfish of us to ask, with what we had put you through._

_This isn’t goodbye, we’ll meet again someday, I’m sure._

_Alfred, I hope you’re happy now._

_Love,_

_Arthur Kirkland_

_The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland_

* * *

 

The nations of the world stood on Mount Vernon, Virginia.

They watched with watery eyes as the letters were dusted over the casket, already resting in the ground.

It’s where America wanted to be buried, next to George Washington, his close friend, and the father of his country.

His tombstone sat at the head of his grave, right beside George’s, with a flag coming out the top and flowers lain all around.

There was a picture carved into the granite, two of them, actually. One was of an Eagle, and the other is of a soldier on a horse, whose front hooves were raised in the air.

For good reason, as America had died in battle, a battle with himself.

The tombstone read;

_Here lies Alfred F. Jones_

_Forever in the hearts of those around the globe_

_God bless America_

 

**Author's Note:**

> So what did America do? You decide.
> 
> I wrote this because I was bored, and when I'm bored, I like to write sad things. Bordem is a scary thing.
> 
> It's badly written, I know. Maybe one day I'll come back and rewrite it.
> 
> I like depressed, suicidal America.
> 
> Sorry for writing something so... bad.
> 
> ~Ayai


End file.
